I could detect the taste of the city on your lips.
The city and her languorous afternoon we spent in bed.
Every evening at 6 pm the chords of your guitar used to grow rose buds.
Sheer sunsets imprinted on our bodies.
Streets, labyrinths of gray cobblestones, dying in the orange light only to be revived later in the night by the steps of lovers desperately calling each other like song sparrows, brown streaks through each eye.
You said if I leave, I would become a stranger to the city. Did you mean to your lips?
I looked at the clock. Its hands showed no time. I answered:
How interesting. Strangers are always destined to replace.
By the little colored stall where ice cream was sold in the summer your guitar shed its notes: rose petals in the remnants of a cold wind.
excerpt from my book in progress: Remembrance of Love [working title]
My poetry collection, Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings, is available on Amazon here.
@short- prose-fiction (Gabriela Marie Milton)
image: agsandrew; Shuterstock; [link]